The Shadow's Shadow s-23

by Maxwell Grant

  "Meanwhile, we're in a bad way. If we could only get rid of The Shadow, we could raid the syndicate office and grab the diamonds—two million dollars' worth of them. Gats Hackett could do the job; he's got his new mob lined up. But you know what would happen. The Shadow would be there. Chances are he's watching Gats like a hawk."

  "Is he? Hm-m-m," observed Zubian thoughtfully. "It always comes back to The Shadow. That's why I brought you here to-night, Carleton. I've traced The Shadow again."

  "What! Where? Who is he?"

  "Another member of the Cobalt Club," said Zubian softly. "He is Lamont Cranston no longer. He passes himself as a man named Henry Arnaud."

  "Then we can take another shot at him!" exclaimed Carleton. "Gats has his new mob -"

  "Gats is out of this," declared Zubian quietly. "The man that I intend to use is Squint Freston. We must get him quietly and arrange for him to obtain a few gunmen who are not too closely associated with Gats Hackett.

  "Remember, The Shadow may be watching Gats. Leave this to me, Carleton. We are going to end The Shadow, and you and I will be present at the finish."

  "When?"

  "To-morrow afternoon!"

  "Where?"

  "In an office building near Times Square."

  Zubian spoke with such assurance that Carleton could not doubt his words. Yet the statements were so cryptic that they left Carleton bewildered. Zubian saw his companion's perplexity.

  "We are using strategy, Carleton," he said quietly. "This will be done by skill—not by clumsy gunfire. I must obtain Squint Freston's services by midnight. The arrangements will be made before dawn."

  "Tell me about them?" requested Carleton eagerly.

  In a low, calm voice, Zubian began to unfold his scheme.

  As the import of his words became apparent to Carleton, the clubman smiled in elation. This was a trap that surpassed all others—a snare that could not be suspected, even by The Shadow.

  "A sure plan!" exclaimed Carleton, when Zubian had concluded.

  "It is only strategy," said Zubian. "Strategy that will bring death to The Shadow!"

  Henry Arnaud was seated in the lobby when Douglas Carleton left the Cobalt Club. He was still there when Felix Zubian strolled by, some minutes afterward.

  The Shadow did not receive even a glance from the man who had become his shadow.

  CHAPTER XX. THE TRAP BRINGS DEATH

  ON the following morning, Felix Zubian and Douglas Carleton met near the building where Hawthorne Crayle's dingy office was located. It was after ten o'clock. Zubian, carrying his heavy cane in his right hand, gripped Carleton's elbow with his left.

  Arriving at the building, the two ascended to the fourth floor. The door of Crayle's office was closed.

  Zubian drew Carleton into the room across the hall.

  "Everything is ready," whispered Zubian. "There is the signal wire - we laid it last night." He indicated a thin green strip that ran under the door, out into the hall.

  "The tank?" questioned Carleton.

  "That went in last night—to the end office. Squint and three men are down there, waiting."

  Carleton smiled. He knew the purpose of these preparations. He relied upon Zubian's cleverness.

  To-day would surely mark the doom of The Shadow.

  "The telegram is planted," added Zubian. "Crayle will fall for it when he comes in. He usually gets here at eleven."

  This statement proved true. At exactly eleven o'clock, the stoop-shouldered form of Hawthorne Crayle appeared in the hallway.

  Zubian and Carleton watched the old man through the peepholes. Crayle opened the door of his office.

  He saw a yellow envelope Iying upon the floor. He tore it open and scanned the message with shaking hands.

  The paper fluttered from Crayle's fingers; the old man hastened into his office. He reappeared a few minutes later, carrying a battered suitcase. He stopped at the door, scrawled a note on a sheet of paper, and attached it to the panel. He closed the door behind him, and shambled hastily along the hall.

  "I knew that would happen," remarked Zubian, with a laugh. "I talked to Crayle one day when I was examining his curios. He has one daughter living in Albany. The telegram states that she is very ill. He won't know that it is a hoax until he reaches Albany."

  "But the note on the door -"

  "That comes now."

  Zubian stole from the room and removed the piece of paper that Crayle had attached. He came back into the office and showed the scrawl to Carleton.

  "Will return to-morrow," read Carleton.

  "Quite ingenious," laughed Zubian. "That note will do, no matter how long Crayle is away. One can read that message any day—because to-morrow is always in the future. However, it does not suit our purpose."

  Zubian carefully erased the word "to-morrow," leaving no trace of the writing. Instead, he inserted markings of his own. The altered note read:

  Will return at 2.30.

  Zubian crossed the hall and carefully replaced the note upon the door. He returned to Carleton, and offered new words of encouragement and explanation.

  "Crayle never locks the office door," he said. "All the curios are in a safe. Visitors, if they find him absent, go inside and wait for his return. That is, such customers who know his ways."

  Reaching to the floor, Zubian pressed a button at the end of the green wire. This was a signal. Zubian arose and placed his hand upon the knob of the door.

  "That means to cut off the water pipe," he explained. "Now comes my job— after that, we wait."

  Zubian crossed the hall, entered Crayle's office, and returned a few minutes later.

  "All ready," he remarked.

  TIME dragged by slowly for Douglas Carleton, but Felix Zubian gave no signs of impatience. The international crook brought out two revolvers, and handed one to Carleton.

  "There are other gunners up the hall," he said, "and they will come if I give an extra signal after the next one. He may try to escape— but he will be nearly helpless when he does."

  In the office at the end of the hall, on the same side as Hawthorne Crayle's curio place, another group of men were waiting. Beside them rested a metal tank, with a tube of rubber hose that lay coiled upon the floor. Squint Freston was in charge of his chosen gangsters. Strict silence ruled.

  Two o'clock came. Back in their hiding place, Zubian and Carleton were tense.

  Three minutes after the hour, a foot-fall sounded in the hall. Their eyes pressed to peekholes, the watchful villains recognized the form of Arnaud.

  The visitor paused at the door of Crayle's office. He lifted the sheet of paper that bore the note. He opened Crayle's door and saw that the office was empty. He entered, reading the note. The door closed behind him.

  "Now," whispered Zubian, "we are ready."

  He pressed the button to give the signal for action. Minutes ticked by while he and Carleton waited.

  WITHIN Crayle's office, Henry Arnaud was seated in a chair, staring at the note, which he had plucked from the door. Such notes were common with Hawthorne Crayle. To be back at two thirty was one of the old man's favorite habits. Evidently he had forgotten his appointment with Henry Arnaud.

  But now the sharp eyes of the waiting man studied the note. Henry Arnaud rested a long finger upon the marks that Felix Zubian had made.

  Arnaud noticed a certain fact. Upon another sheet of paper, he wrote two phrases, one above the other: Will be back at 2.30.

  Will be back at 2:30.

  To an ordinary observer, the statements would have appeared the same. To Henry Arnaud, the one point of difference was obvious. In the first, the figure 2 was followed by a period; in the second, it was followed by a colon.

  The upper statement corresponded with the one that Arnaud had found on the door; but the lower was the form that Hawthorne Crayle habitually wrote when he attached a message to the door. The old man was a creature of habit. It was not likely that he should change a style that he had used for years.

&nbs
p; One dot alone made a colon differ from a period; yet the absence of that note was proof to Henry Arnaud that Hawthorne Crayle had not marked the figures "2.30" upon the message!

  There was further proof as Arnaud held the paper to the light and rubbed his sensitive finger tip along it.

  The original marking had been erased—this had been placed there in its stead!

  Arnaud's soft laugh was inaudible outside the office. With wary, silent tread, the calm-faced man moved about the room. Not a single detail escaped his attention. Within two minutes he had inspected every spot. He stopped at a washbasin that was provided with a single faucet.

  Carefully, Arnaud turned the handle of the faucet back and forth. He observed that it had been turned on; yet no water was issuing forth.

  Arnaud drew a deep breath through his nostrils; he detected a very slight odor. He drew a match from his pocket and held it beneath the open faucet. The match went out.

  Henry Arnaud smiled inscrutably. He knew the game now.

  Through that pipe was coming—not water—but a noninflammable poison gas!

  This room was a death trap. Within ten or fifteen minutes, should Arnaud be content to remain inactive, the office would be flooded with the death vapor, and its occupant would be overpowered.

  Deliberately, Arnaud turned the handle to shut off the flow of gas from the faucet. He crept to the door, and drew an automatic from beneath his coat. Reaching upward, he placed his hand upon the knob as he crouched there, waiting.

  IN the office at the end of the hall, Squint Freston was giving orders to his men. The metal tank was now in use. Its hose was attached to the spigot above the washbasin in that office.

  The whole row of offices were on a single pipeline. That was the basis of Felix Zubian's scheme. With the water turned off, the pipe became the conductor of the murderous gas!

  The handle of the metal tank was turned an full. Gas was surging through the waterline, restrained only by the fact that the building pipe could not accommodate the full flow. There was heavy pressure here—pressure sufficiently relieved when the faucet was open in Crayle's office.

  But now, unknown to Squint and his men, the other end was plugged. There could be but one consequence. The pressure from the tank must be relieved. A break was sure to occur.

  Like all breaks, it was due to take place at the weakest point. That was the connection between the tank and the water spigot in the room where the gangsters waited.

  The break came with a terrific puff. Unexpectedly, the tank blew the rubber hose completely across the room. A heavy volume of gas unloaded itself upon the startled gangsters.

  For a moment confusion raged; then one man made a grasp for the control handle. To use it, he placed his face directly above the opening in the tank.

  The overpowering fumes were too much for him. The flow was powerful, and the gangster staggered. He lost his grip upon the handle and fell to the floor.

  No one attempted to do the job that had failed. The remaining gangsters leaped toward the door and yanked it open in a mad endeavor to reach the hall. Their wild rush, mingled with gasping oaths, gave an alarm that could be heard along the entire floor.

  Henry Arnaud was waiting. With a swift motion, he pulled open the door of the curio office and stepped into the hall. Then his quick eyes saw a danger spot directly opposite. He could not observe the watching eyes of Felix Zubian and Douglas Carleton, but he knew that such eyes might be there.

  Up came Arnaud's automatic. Carleton and Zubian saw it. They knew the hand that wielded it. Within their hiding place, they dived for safety as a bullet crashed through the glass panel just above their heads.

  With that shot, Arnaud swung to the end of the hall. The startled gangsters were not unprepared; they had been holding revolvers in readiness, should guns be necessary. Zubian had feared that Arnaud might managed to stagger to safety before the gas had completely overcome him.

  Now, in the clear air of the hall, the gangster heard Squint Freston's sharp command. They raised their revolvers, but before they could fire at the figure of Henry Arnaud, a quick burst of shots came from the automatic. Backing along the hall, Arnaud delivered these fatal shots; then he swung down the stairs, ready to meet new enemies who might be lurking there.

  No provision had been made for this. Felix Zubian had thought of cutting off retreat, but he feared that the presence of lurking gangsters on the stairs might be a warning. Thus Arnaud found the path unblocked.

  The long, chilling tones of a triumphant laugh resounded back along the hall. That laugh revealed the identity of Henry Arnaud. It was the laugh of The Shadow!

  A figure moved among the piled-up gunmen who had fallen before The Shadow's deadly marksmanship.

  Squint Freston raised himself clear. Miraculously, the little gangster had escaped injury. He had dropped to the floor, and had lain there, protected by the bodies of his fallen underlings.

  As Squint dashed along the hall, he was followed by Zubian and Carleton. Realizing that their game had failed, these two were eager to escape.

  The trio of fugitives hurried down the stairs, fearfully expecting to meet The Shadow on the way. They stopped. Policemen were thudding up to learn the cause of the gun play.

  With a quick growl, Zubian pointed out a window on the stairway. Squint was nearest; he yanked open the sash. The three men leaped to a fire escape and hurried down into a court, just in time to elude the police who were coming up.

  Dodging down an alley, the three men scattered and made their way to different streets. Squint Freston headed for a hideout. Douglas Carleton, his nerve gone, lost himself amid a throng of passers, and aimed for the security of Broadway.

  Only Felix Zubian remained unafraid; but his face scowled as he, too, headed for safety. He called a passing cab, and ordered the driver to take him to the Cobalt Club.

  Strategy, like force, had failed. Once again, The Shadow had turned the tables on his shadow's schemes!

  CHAPTER XXI. THE BIG GAME

  IT was midnight when Felix Zubian and Douglas Carleton met again. This time they did not join each other in the Cobalt Club. Zubian had deemed it wise to decamp from there that afternoon. The conference of these plotting crooks took place in a room on the eighteenth floor of the Gargantuan Hotel.

  Never before had the pair formed such a contrast. In the face of the disaster which had overtaken their last attempt to trap The Shadow, Douglas Carleton had become a nervous wreck. His hands were fidgeting; his eyes were blinking. Felix Zubian, on the contrary, was grimly determined.

  It was natural, therefore, that Carleton should pour forth his worries to his companion. Zubian was silent while the clubman talked. He was thinking always, this crook of international repute, who had dared to term himself The Shadow's shadow.

  "We're up against it, Zubian," declared Carleton. "Up against it terribly. The Shadow has got our number.

  What can we do? We can't get him—he'll get us before we know it! The game is ended!"

  "Why?" asked Zubian.

  "How are we going to land the diamonds?" demanded Carleton. "They're what we're after. We can't move while The Shadow is around; and we've just about reached the limit. I found that out to-night."

  "Ah!" exclaimed Zubian. "Something has occurred at Devaux's?"

  "Plenty," declared Carleton. "Milbrook is growing tired of waiting. He wants Devaux to decide about his purchase by to-morrow night. If Devaux doesn't buy, the diamonds will leave New York."

  "What does Devaux say?"

  "He is still stalling. He won't even look at the diamonds. Milbrook offered to bring them up to the house; Devaux told him to wait until he was ready to buy."

  "What else has happened?"

  "Well"—Carleton spoke resentfully—"if Milbrook isn't out of the picture mighty quick, it will be all off so far as my engagement to Virginia is concerned. She and Milbrook have evidently had a chance to see each other. They are madly in love. If he could be put out of the way -"

 
A smile crept over Felix Zubian's face. Douglas Carleton stared without understanding.

  "Carleton," said Zubian, "we are not yet beaten. We have the stage all set —if we know how to use it.

  The sooner we act, the better. To-morrow night is the time. Do you think"—his smile broadened wickedly—"that you could persuade Stanford Devaux to look at those uncut diamonds to-morrow night, in his own home?"

  "Sure, I could," responded Carleton promptly.

  "Can you reach him now?" questioned Zubian.

  "Yes," said Carleton.

  "Call him, then," declared Zubian. "Make the suggestion, very artfully."

  CARLETON went to the telephone. In few minutes he was speaking to Stanford Devaux. Felix Zubian listened intently to the conversation.

  "Hello," said Carleton, "this is Douglas... Yes. Glad I didn't disturb you... I'm calling you about those—those articles that belong to Milbrook... Yes... Why wouldn't it be a good idea to have him bring them up to the house to-morrow night? We can look at them then... Yes, I'll be there... I'd like to see them, too... Good."

  Carleton hung up the receiver and turned to Zubian. The other man was watching him with a knowing smile, which Carleton did not detect.

  "Devaux is calling Milbrook," said Carleton. "He will make the arrangements. Now tell me what you propose to do?"

  "Carleton," said Zubian, still continuing to smile, "you are very, very clever. I have suspected it for a long while; I was not sure of it until now."

  "What do you mean?" demanded Carleton narrowly.

  "Your engagement to Virginia Devaux," smiled Zubian. "That is one factor. Another is your willingness to invest in the enterprises that we have planned. Furthermore, your remarkable ability to persuade Stanford Devaux to delay his diamond purchase until the proper time -"

  Carleton's face was changing. Zubian's smile became extremely friendly.

  "Don't worry," continued the suave Zubian. "I'll keep what I know to myself. It is to our mutual advantage. It serves to increase my confidence in you."

  "I know what you're thinking, Zubian," admitted Carleton. "You've guessed it right. But keep it to yourself. It is not to be known— particularly by Gats or such others."